“It’s a free music thing,” T-bone said. “There’s going to be a metal band and some sort of French jazz psychedelic band … and then a bunch of hipster bands that may or may not be good. I listened to the stuff on their websites, but I couldn’t always tell.”

The research wasn’t so surprising. The ‘bone works in TV, so I guess doing pre-production work just comes naturally.

When we got to Coney Island — which is much closer to my new home in the BK than to my old place, BTW — it wasn’t crowded yet. The sun was shining. You could smell the ocean and hotdogs and people. Two stages were set up at different ends of the park. The first stage we hit was right under the Cyclone. As the bands played, people zoomed around the track, screaming.

Later, Jojo and ‘bone went on the Cyclone, and I held their bags. Jojo’s coworkers met us. They, like Jo, were blonde. The blondes and ‘bone and I drank huge cups of beer from Nathan’s and wandered around buzzed, looking at the people.

“Look at that guy,” ‘bone said, pointing to a dude who was asleep against a barricade. “I’m pretty sure he’s on smack.”

“Look at that girl,” I said. “She’s why I don’t wear shorts.”

We saw 857 tattoos, two couples of shockingly mismatched size (two squares in hipster bingo for 8-foot tall guy and 4-foot tall girl), a five year old boy with a full-on, two-foot tall, dyed-green mohawk, and more babies than I’d care to count. At festivals like this, you realize that the majority of mankind is not so pretty to look at — or, at the very least, that it is inclined to wear unfortunate pleated shorts that don’t do it any favors.

We stayed all day, leaving after the Scissor Sisters and trying not to pass out on the train. I lost my lip liner and my sense of proportion, but not my bankcard, phone or wallet, so I felt that I came out ahead. All in all, a wonderful day.